A Simple Enquiry
by A Rabid Fan
Summary: "What is Art?" A one-shot take on art by the Akatsuki.


"What is art?" You ask, sharpening your kunai, light dancing across the blade. He stops, eyes lighting up at the question.

"Art is an explosion!" He shouts, hands thrown in the air. You just stare, raising a brow.

"Why?"

His eyes widen as he twists his body to face you, his hair almost smacking him in the face. You put down your kunai, eager to hear his contribution.

"Art… art is that moment when everything is on fire. When everything is up in flames and in smoke. That adrenaline rush that hits, when nothing matters at all. It's the beginning and the end, you scourge the bad, you cull the rotten, you're reborn. It only lasts a moment! You blink and its gone, that second of uncertainty."

He pauses, kneading his clay before looking back at you.

"Did you know that some age-old Iron-country philosopher once said that the world was created in a Big Bang? That something exploded and - boom- life! That's what art is, it's an infinite circle un. Both destruction and life."

He smirks, a cocky little thing.

"Its a bang!" He snarks, releasing the small sparrow; a fierce combustion of blaring yellow and a clamour of reds, aimed right at you.

* * *

"What is art?" You ask, whilst running across the branches. She turns, amber eyes narrowing, as she reaches up to readjust her paper flower.

"Art?" She pauses, sadness flashing briefly across her visage.

"Art is protection," she says, pulling out a sheet of origami, pale pink in the rising sun. "It's fragility but strength, power in the face of weakness. It's the realisation that life carries on, you just have to protect and cherish what's yours."

She finishes folding the paper flower, glances at it, before handing it over.

* * *

"What is art?" You ask, as you attempt to slam your fist into his gut.

"What are you on about, shrimp?" He laughs, jumping away. "Have you been hanging out with the idiot-duo?" You only raise an eyebrow, frowning as you come to a standstill.

He halts, swinging Samehada onto his shoulder.

"Art… well, I don't know much about art."

He stops, rubbing a thumb over the scratch in his headband.

"I suppose its loyalty. It's having your comrade's back, not being a worthless, backstabbing, info-selling piece of shit. It's a world without lies, just truth." He flashes a grin, all teeth and sharp edges.

"It doesn't exist in this world, I know that for sure."

* * *

"What is art?" You ask, passing over a bundle of ryō. He grabs it, ruffling his index through the sheets, tallying them up in his head.

He holds out his hand, palm upwards, a clear demand for more. You gingerly place down another stack, slightly thicker than before, which he quickly counts.

"It's profit."

You fiddle with a coin, staring at him. He scoffs, glaring at you as his green pupils narrow.

"Money is the only reliable concept in the world. It is the only thing that binds our society. Profit is when you gain - when you are better. If you have more money, you have more power, then you are superior."

His strings grab your coin, yanking it from your grasp.

"Now get out before I kill you."

* * *

"What is art?" You ask, watching as he methodically whittled down the block of wood, the bare shape of an upper thigh forming.

He continues whittling, the naked limb emerging as if reborn.

"Art is eternity."

He shapes out the hollow, where the limb would connect to the hip.

"Art is a lack of change, it is the beauty of forever, undamaged by ageing, by death, by emotions, by time." He hissed out the last word, fingers clenching slightly before relaxing.

"I am art and I graciously allow others to experience art themselves."

He finished the sculpture, clicking the lower leg into place, before attaching the entire limb to the human puppet. Finished, he stares up, brushing sawdust off his lap.

"Are you done? You have a meeting to go to and being late is unacceptable." He taps a finger against his chin, the sound of knocking wood echoing around the room.

"Unless you would like to become art as well?"

* * *

"What is art?" You ask, after finishing up your report.

He shuffles the papers on his desk, carefully inserting them in a drawer out of your sight.

"This has no relation to the mission," he states.

You can only acknowledge, unable to question further.

His eyes flash before continuing, his voice drawing you out of your contemplation.

"Art can only exist if a world without the cycle of hatred exists. Hence, there is no art until true peace is obtained. When Akatsuki's goals are achieved, then I will tell you what art is."

"Thank you," you say, bowing, before turning to leave.

* * *

"What is art?" You ask, carefully attempting to ignore the blood sinking into the dirt from the finished ritual.

He only laughs, yanking the blade out from his heart.

"Art is Jashin! Anything less than destruction is a fucking sin!" He cackles, smearing the crimson liquid further across his chest, dying his silver hair a blazing red, as his skin fades back to normal.

"Pain is beauty, death is a prayer and you heathens should be beyond grateful that I'm spreading the will of Jashin!" Madness seemed to ignite in his eyes, his moans reverberating as his wound tore further from his vigorous gestures.

You look over at the corpse across the clearing, the same wounds painted, mimicked, on its torso. Its mouth was open in a silent cry, tears still wet.

It had been a civilian.

* * *

"What is art?" You ask, staring at the bridge of his nose. You wanted to avoid those eyes, those eyes that entrapped, those demon eyes.

He blew at the steam rising from his tea, the gust of warm air swirling past your ears. A few minutes passed, the careless chatter of the crowd filling the silence. Setting the cup down, he pushed the plate of dango towards yourself, gesturing for you to have one.

"Art would be peace," he sighed, as you slid a piece into your mouth. "A world where families stay together and children remain innocent."

You frown, confusion flooding your mind. Hypocrite, you can't help but think.

He notices your disbelieving look but ignores it, reaching out to grab a stick of the cloyingly sweet dumplings.

"Art is peace?" You question again, bewildered and aggravated. Liar, you brand.

His eyes darken, drilling through you, before turning away.

"Hmm."

His face shutters, the little emotion showed flying away. He stands up, dropping a few bills onto the table. It almost feels as if you disappointed him, as if you let him down. You weren't in the wrong though.

Right?

* * *

"What is art?" You ask, carefully tending to the herbs.

"Why do you ask _**you stupid bitch?**_ " He growls, the black side's mouth stretching grotesquely, as if it had been reflected in a circus mirror, one that warped and distorted the image. The white side only smiled, a thin, placid smile. An apathetic, eerie grin.

"I would love to tell you _**but you are not worthy, only a waste of time, a waste of space**._" He cackles, baring his jagged teeth, the odour of a predator drifting out.

And that was that.

* * *

What is art? You ask yourself.

On one level it was fine art, a visual splendour meant to embody some meaning or some emotion. Or none at all. It was skill, the talent and genius of what you do best. It was deception, the cunning thought of a mind. But what was your take on art?

What is art?


End file.
